Pennies from Heaven E-Book

James P. Blaylock

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 408

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Jerry Larkin discovers an age-old secret buried beneath the foundation of the house that he and his wife Jane, an avid reader of ghost stories, bought six months ago in the idyllic town of Old Orange in southern California. Jane Larkin, whose MacArthur grant led to the creation of public gardens and a farmers market in the town's central park, works against time to save what she has built as a 100-year storm moves in off the coast. Lettie Phibbs, a strange librarian whose Antiquity Center holds the secrets to the hidden history of Old Orange, inserts herself into the Larkins' lives, growing increasingly eccentric and menacing, as unpredictable as the storm itself. PENNIES FROM HEAVEN, a six-day mystery, tells the tale of a small town haunted by the reanimated ghosts of a buried past, a story that reaches a terrifying crescendo of murder and intrigue in a high-paced rush toward fate and redemption. Praise For Pennies From Heaven "Pennies from Heaven is a gripping mash-up of mystery, history, thriller and horror. Expect conspirators, murderers, fraudsters, charlatans and unquiet spirits among the cheerful co-op gardeners. Author James P Blaylock weaves these diverse strands with effortless skill, painting people and landscapes with the authentic touch of long familiarity. You can almost smell the desert, the wet wind, and that very malicious ghost." —Clare Rhoden, Aurealis #161 "The supernatural elements in the book are vital and well done (the eventual capture of the ghost is colorful and ingenious), but the spook stuff takes a backseat to the human dynamics, the caper aspect and the interpersonal hijinks. Blaylock has always had an affection for eccentrics, misfits and visionaries, and while Jane and Jerry are more "normal" and wholesome than his typical cast, they qualify as non-whitebread souls. As for Phibbs, Blaylock succeeds in creating a true monster." — Paul Di Filippo, Locus Magazine

Leseprobe

Pennies from Heaven

Copyright © 2022 by James P. BlaylockAll rights reserved.

Published as an ebook in 2023 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. in association with Zeno Agency LTD.

Cover design by Pedro Marques

ISBN 978-1-625676-13-9

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Friday

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Saturday

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Sunday

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Monday

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Tuesday

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Wednesday

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Epilogue

After the Flood

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by James P. Blaylock

With love for Viki, John, Danny, and Jodi Blaylock.And especially for the amazingDuke Buchanan Blaylock.

“What if the elephant in the roomis the skeleton in the closet?”

William Ashbless, “Destinations 1958”

Friday

1

JANE LARKIN RESTED against piled up pillows, working in the glow of her tiny bedside lamp. She was adding up budget numbers in a spiral notebook for the second time and not much liking what she saw. The clock read four in the morning, but she knew that she was through sleeping, just like she knew there was nothing wrong with her arithmetic.

She listened to the sound of October rain gurgling out of the downpipe into the flowerbed, and now and then a gust of wind drove raindrops against the windowpanes. Summer had abruptly turned into fall at the end of August this year, and there had been an unending succession of cool days and cooler nights throughout September, with unseasonable rain two or three times a week, often heavy. She wished that a fire was burning in the bedroom fireplace—one of the nicely quaint elements of the old Spanish-style house that she and Jerry had bought six months ago in Old Orange, the downtown historical district of the City of Orange.

A year ago Jane had been awarded a MacArthur Foundation grant and had found herself director of a project she had named the Old Orange Co-op. She had been happily shocked to receive the funding she had asked for, enough to pay limited salaries and expenses for three years, by which time the Co-op was intended to be self-perpetuating. That would be possible only with help from the city and elusive private money. The months, however, were flying fast, and the perpetual rain was literally drowning the Co-op’s activities.

Jerry breathed evenly on the opposite side of the bed, half-out of the covers, his legs stippled with the glow of the streetlamp slanting through the blinds. She discovered when they were married that sleeping was one of Jerry’s talents. His black hair was bedraggled, as Jane’s mother used to say, and his face wore a serene expression. He was tall enough to take up the length of the mattress, and even in sleep his muscles were clearly defined, which came from years of swimming. Jane envied his ability to eat anything and not gain weight. She thought about waking him up, accidentally-on-purpose, so that she had someone to talk numbers with. He was good at convincing her not to worry.

The melody from “Pennies from Heaven” came into her mind, along with the memory of her father singing it to her when she was a little girl, afraid of thunder. She had loved the idea of carrying her umbrella upside-down when it rained in order to catch heavenly pennies. She would have hummed the tune, but not at this ungodly hour of the morning. Pennies weren’t going to cut it anyway.

Their dog Peewee, a cross between a shih tzu and a pug and maybe a French bulldog, lay on his back between them snoring, resting against Jerry’s side, his feet pointing toward the ceiling. Peewee’s face was perfectly flat—a moon-like, two-dimensional face that made him appear self-satisfied and contributed to a noisy night’s sleep. Jerry shifted, rolling slightly closer to the edge of the bed, and Peewee did the same, crowding up against him, as if shrinking Jerry’s available space in a bold effort to tip him off onto the floor.

Jane set her notebook aside and picked up the collection of ghost stories she’d been reading before bed last night. She had put it down when it became particularly nightmarish, but it would probably be safe now that her mind had no interest in sleep. She had just started to read when Peewee abruptly woke up, stared wide-eyed at Jane for a frozen moment, and then heaved himself to his feet, jumped to the floor, and ran out through the doorway.

Someone on the porch? Jane thought, but now she saw that the ceiling lamp was swaying on its chains. Part of her mind associated it with Peewee’s hitting the floor, but now the ground gave a lurch and the entire house shook and bounced on its foundation, the blinds clacking against the window frame and a cloud of black soot whooshing out of the fireplace. She heard a rumbling sound, or perhaps imagined it, and she pushed Jerry’s shoulder hard, shouting his name as she clambered out of bed. Awakening instantly, Jerry followed her into the doorway where they jammed themselves in, holding on as the shaking increased.

The door started to swing shut, and Jerry threw out his hand to catch it, banging it open again, taking another second to flip on the light switch, a small relief that lasted about a second before there was a cracking noise beneath their feet followed by what sounded like a small avalanche. The floor slumped directly beneath them, and both of them gasped, Jane certain that they were going through. The floor jarred to a stop even as she thought it, but the house continued to lurch and roll. Something hit the ground out in the living room, and the picture hanging over the bed—a dancing woman in a flowered dress—slid downward along its wire but didn’t fall.

“Hold on!” Jerry shouted unnecessarily, and Jane squeezed his arm in reply, since she was already holding onto him as well as onto the doorjamb. She felt the waves of energy moving beneath her feet—actual waves, not the jolting any longer, but more evenly as the ’quake slowly faded. The night grew silent and still, but the hanging lamp over the bed continued to sway on its chains.

They stood for a few more moments, still holding onto each other and waiting for it to start up again. Jane had the weird feeling that the whole world was swaying, and she looked away from the lamp, which made her seasick.

“That was unpleasant,” Jerry said.

“My heart’s beating like a hammer,” Jane said, releasing his arm. “I thought the house was coming down.”

Jerry stepped out of the doorway and got down on his hands and knees to look at the crack that had opened in the floor. Two tongue-and-groove oak slats had puckered open along Jane’s side of the bed, the ends of the slats still miraculously closed and flat. There was white dust in the air, and small chunks of plaster lay on the floor from a crack in the ceiling.

Jane picked up her robe from the chair and put it on. The clock read 4:19. There was no possibility of more sleep. She looked closely at the tiled fireplace now, thinking about damage. The grout was still tight and clean, which was close to miraculous. The Arts and Crafts tiles, hand-made in the 1920s, would be hard to replace if they could be replaced at all, especially the four oddball tiles with Chinese motifs laid in among the rest. They were seriously old, with pastoral paintings of trees and distant mountains in blues and greens.

A brass-framed mirror was set into the center of the top row of tiles, which was peculiar. The man who had built the house had evidently been eccentric. When she sat in bed she could sometimes see the shadow of her face in the faded old mirror, and she saw now that the mirror was cracked, the only apparent ’quake damage besides the floor and ceiling. Maybe she would talk Jerry into moving the bed. She had no desire to look into her own cracked face.

“Can the floor be fixed?” she asked Jerry.

“Anything can be fixed.” He smiled at her as if there was nothing to it, clearly more worried about Jane’s worrying than about the problem with the floor. He pulled on the chinos he’d been wearing yesterday and slipped on a pair of shoes. “Step back into the doorway another second, just for the fun of it.” When Jane had pinned herself in again, he stood over the crack in the floor and bounced up and down.

“Is that wise?” Jane asked.

“It depends on how you define wisdom. According to Socrates it’s a squishy word.”

“Like the floor,” Jane said. “Let’s not dance on it until it’s put back together, okay?”

Peewee wandered back into the room now and hopped up onto the bed, settling on Jerry’s pillow and staring roundabout with an accusatory look.

“Peewee woke up ten seconds before it started and ran away,” Jane said. “He knew it was coming.”

“Just like the Chinese earthquake pigs,” Jerry said. “Maybe we can put a cow bell around his neck and hire him out. I’m pretty sure everything’s fine with the floor. A support post probably shifted and a beam slumped a little before it settled again. The nice thing about wooden houses is that everything is tied into everything else and it holds itself together. I’ll head down to the cellar to take a look. Probably I can fix it myself.”

They walked through the living room into the kitchen, Jane turning on the lights as they went. Half a dozen books had fallen onto the floor, jolted off the small table next to the couch. Jane put them back in their place and looked around, astonished to see that there was no other apparent damage, no other cracks in the ceiling, nothing broken. It didn’t seem possible, the way the house had rolled with the ’quake and yet held together, everything riding along like a boat in a storm.

In the kitchen she dumped water into the electric kettle and plugged it in. “Coffee?” she asked, as Jerry dug the big flashlight out of the cupboard.

“Thanks,” he said. “I just want to check out the cellar. Shouldn’t take ten minutes.”

He went out through the back door, and after a moment Jane heard the cellar hatch creak open. She poured hot water over a bag of green tea for herself and then made Jerry a cup of coffee with the filter cone, leaving the cone on top of the mug to keep it warm.

She fetched her laptop computer and went back out into the living room, where she opened the blinds and looked out at the rainy street and the camphor tree on the parkway, half-expecting to see buckled pavement or tilted phone poles, but there was no sign of any trouble at all in the misty glow of the streetlamps. Old Orange had shaken itself out like a big rug and then settled back into place.

Mrs. Collins, across the street, stood on the sidewalk in her bathrobe and slippers looking at her house, an ornate old half-timbered place with gables and a steep roof that neighbors referred to as the Snow White house. Jane was tempted to stroll across the street for a chat, but Mrs. Collins waved at someone unseen, who was out and about farther on down, and then headed back up the walk.

Peewee had already hopped up onto the big chair by the window, so Jane shifted him sideways and squeezed in next to him. She scratched him behind the ears and sipped her tea, thinking about the Saturday morning bookmobile that she was planning as an addition to the Co-op’s farmers market. Part of her mind was waiting for the ’quake to start up again, and she thought of Jerry crawling around in the cellar, the house collapsing on him.

“Quit it,” she said, and Peewee looked up at her, obviously assuming that she was talking to him.

She had a breakfast meeting this morning with a Mrs. Lettie Phibbs from the Antiquity Center in order to discuss the bookmobile project. The Center had deep pockets, which wasn’t a bad thing. But she found now that she dreaded the meeting just a little bit. She had met Mrs. Phibbs a couple of times in the past, and the woman had struck her as being slightly off-kilter. But an off-kilter ally with funds was better than no ally, and how many people were entirely on-kilter when you thought about it, except perhaps sociopaths, who had no kilter at all.

On the internet she found a number of used food trucks for sale moderately cheap—the old ones, anyway—although it might cost as much again to repurpose one, not to mention potential repairs to the engine or transmission. She looked at several photos, trying to get a sense of what was being offered, wanting to have a picture in mind when she talked to Lettie Phibbs about money. She could fake the rest.

Her mind went back to the ’quake again, and she searched the internet for some mention of it, finding it instantly, posted just a couple of minutes ago. It had been a slip in the Newportinglewood fault, the same fault that had triggered the Long Beach ’quake in 1933. That one had been a 6.4 magnitude roller that killed 115 people, most of them crushed by falling brick from unreinforced walls and chimneys when they ran outside. The fault had been quiet until this morning’s 5.4 shaker, according to the brief report. It was a modern miracle that the information had appeared online so quickly, and also that there was nothing in it that was the least bit useful.

“I won’t let Jerry hire you out as an earthquake pig,” she said to Peewee, who had a small sense of humor and who was sound asleep now and breathing heavily. Jerry, on the other hand, had a double dose when it came to a sense of humor, which sometimes got him into trouble with people who had little or none at all.

2

JERRY DESCENDED THE several concrete stairs into the cellar, switched on the bare bulb overhead, and then shut the hatch in order to keep the rain out. The place smelled of dusty stone, old lumber, and dead air. The light bulb was dusty and threw a feeble light, and the maze-like cellar was a place of deep shadows. In the six months they’d owned the house he had meant to hook up better lighting and clean the cellar out, but the task had been easy to put off over the summer, which he and Jane had spent fixing up the house and yard.

The cellar was a big one by southern California standards, with a section of concrete floor and a considerable space dug out beyond where the floor ended. The house’s old gravity heater was down here, the burners surrounded by a heavy concrete box. He could see light from the kitchen through the register in the floor above the heater box. The water heater stood nearby, alongside an open plywood cabinet. Inside the cabinet lay a box of wooden matches, no doubt for lighting the water heater pilot a decade or two ago. There was a dead flashlight, too. He decided to leave his live flashlight in the cabinet when he closed up.

Another thing occupying the considerable cellar space was a wrought-iron log rack, still heaped with sawn limbs and wedges of stumps. It was a good place to keep firewood dry, although it was also a spider palace. He could see the spiky egg sacs of brown widows, which beat black widows, although he preferred no widows at all, at least living in the cellar. Th e logs would have to go. Alongside the log rack were three wooden packing crates sized like nesting dolls, with the lids removed and set diagonally into the crates. The crates were keepers.

He saw now that there was more earthquake damage than the crack in the bedroom floor. An even wider crack had opened up in a brick foundation wall that stretched from the base of the fireplace across to the concrete perimeter foundation under the east wall of the house. The top-to-bottom crack in the brick hadn’t been there when he had last been in the cellar, so it was obviously ’quake damage. The wall was a little over six feet high, built of burnt clay bricks that ran along under a big beam, as if the brick wall was meant to support it. But that seemed unnecessary given the hefty size of the beam. Surely it could support itself. And why brick rather than concrete like the rest of the foundation?

What looked like white sand had leaked out of the crack, which was another strange thing. Why on earth would anyone build a wall of hollow brick and fill the voids with sand? Mortar would make sense, but there was no virtue in sand.

He shined his flashlight into the maze of posts and beams beneath the distant bedroom. Someone had dug out a path in that direction as well as excavating other random areas, a half-finished attempt at carving out useful space, probably. He could just make out the brick base of the back-to-back fireplace in the distance, each side with its own chimney-pipe and damper. To the left of it lay the crawlspace beneath the bedroom, his destination as soon as he lit the place up.

He had been right about the bedroom floor: a vertical support post appeared to have shifted and now stood at a wonky angle. The beam it supported had bowed beneath the weight of the house, just enough to open the crack. The beam didn’t appear to be in any danger of failing, however, at least not from this distance. He could lift it straight with a bottle-jack at a civilized hour, stand the post up straight again, and lower the beam back onto it, tying the pieces together with steel plates to prevent the same thing happening again.

The top-to-bottom crack in the brick wall was more interesting—an opportunity, to be sure. He could simply knock a three-foot width of the bricks out entirely, opening up a passageway to the most useful part of the cellar. He would set posts on either side of the door, just in case the brick wall had some structural purpose after all. The posts would further support the beam.

He could excavate the cellar to his heart’s content after that. It wouldn’t take much digging to open up enough square footage for a brick-walled wine cellar. Although he and Jane weren’t wine connoisseurs, he’d be a fool not to put one in. Even a cheap bottle of wine tasted better if it was hauled out of a wine cellar. The thought of wine reminded him that it was his and Jane’s anniversary in a few days and that he needed to buy champagne and a present—something nice. And he would make her dinner—steak Diane, maybe, with garlic mashed potatoes. Ten years!

He looked more carefully at the delta of white sand on the floor and spotted what looked like a big coin standing on edge, half-buried. Clearly it had fallen out of the crack along with the sand. It appeared to be an old Chinese coin, brown-black with age and with a square hole in the center of it—a lucky coin if he ever saw one. The raised pictographs on it were strangely intricate, although they didn’t suggest pictures to him.

The sand on his fingers was the bright white of coral sand rather than silica, although it appeared to be made up of tiny crystals. He put his tongue to it. It was salt, not sand. Someone—a lunatic, maybe—had filled the hollow spaces in the bricks with salt. He stood thinking about this for a moment, coming up with nothing to explain it. It was time to return to the waking world, to his coffee getting cold on the kitchen counter and to Jane, who was drinking her tea alone. A fire in the fireplace would be a good thing to restore a sense of homeliness to the unsettling morning.

He pushed open the hatch, switched off the light, and climbed out. The rain had stopped, but water was dripping from the eaves, and the air smelled of rain on concrete, wet mulch, and night-blooming jasmine. There was dawn light in the eastern sky now. He flipped his lucky coin into the air, caught it in his palm, and put it into his pocket.

3

SCOTTY’S DRUGSTORE AND Soda Fountain was busy for breakfast, this being a Friday morning. Jane found an empty table near the back, with red and white leatherette booths on either side of a Formica-topped table with a blue and pink pattern of stovetop percolators and old toasters. There was a cheerful clattering of plates and glasses and porcelain coffee mugs along with the chatter of conversation, the people behind her talking about the earthquake. She sipped her coffee, looking out at the street through the windows, watching for the arrival of Mrs. Phibbs, now ten minutes late.

Servers brought plates of hot food out from the kitchen through a nearby swing door, and Jane contemplated snatching the bacon off the next plate that came past the table. She could eat the evidence and deny the crime. But here was Mrs. Phibbs coming in through the door. Apparently spotting Jane, she pushed her way through the activity between the long counter and adjacent tables. She was wearing a voluminous scarf decorated with pictures of books, several pieces of silver jewelry with big turquoise stones, and a pair of half-glasses with heavy blue frames beneath a bubble hairdo and bangs that gave her an odd, little-girl look. Jane guessed she was in her mid-sixties. She wasn’t a big woman, but there was something sturdy about her, what Jane’s father would have called hearty peasant stock.

She squeezed into the booth and said, “It’s high time that you and I had a real confab, Jane. I’m so happy you agreed to meet with me.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Jane said, smiling broadly. “I…”

“Hold that thought!” Mrs. Phibbs gestured at a passing waitress in a red apron and said, “We’d like to order breakfast, young lady, if you have the time. We’re ravenous, so you’d best take our order if you want a real tip rather than a penny in the bottom of a water glass.” She winked at Jane, as if this was intended to be a harmless variety of teasing. “I’ll have the special, with the toast golden brown. Tell the cook that if the toast is too dark he’ll hear from me. The eggs over medium, lacy around the edges, but not browned. The bacon crisp. I cannot abide flaccid bacon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress said, and looked at Jane, who ordered fried eggs, bacon and rye toast as simply and clearly as she could. It struck her that it would be necessary to double-check the tip.

“Now, let’s introduce ourselves properly,” Mrs. Phibbs said when the waitress had gone off .

“Yes,” Jane said. “You go first.”

“All right. People call me Lettie, which is short for Leticia. You are hereby directed to do the same. I earned my master’s degree in library science from the University of Southern California. This was a long time ago to be sure. I specialized in southern California history. I grew up in Orange County, you know. I’m from here, if you take my meaning. Know thyself, Jane. That has always been my motto—know thyself! And one cannot know oneself unless one knows one’s roots.”

“Very sensible,” Jane said. “And you decided to work as a private librarian in a non-profit library? That was an adventurous decision.”

“I opened the Antiquity Center as a real library and museum, Jane. Not the modern-day delirium tremens that calls itself a library but sheds books like a dog sheds fleas. I’ve always gone my own old-fashioned way.” She nodded sharply and said, “Now, it’s your turn.”

“Okay,” Jane said. “I graduated with a degree in zoology from U. C. Riverside, worked at the Orange County Zoo for a few years, taught at Fullerton College for a few more, and then went back to Riverside for a degree in urban planning.”

“Because you dreamt the dream of the Co-op!”

“Exactly.”

“Most inspiring book?”

“Maybe… The Death and Life of Great American Cities.”

“I can’t recall having read it, although I’m certain it was an inspiration. Your dream is a good dream, Jane, and I’m happy to find that we’re both dreamers. We were destined to fall in with each other—two women in charge of burgeoning non-profit enterprises. I’ll tell you that I very much like this notion of a book caravan in your Co-op’s farmers market. I’ve been giving it serious thought. But first tell me what you envision. We’ll see if we’re on the same page.” She covered her mouth and tittered through her fingers, and it came to Jane that Lettie had made a librarian’s joke.

“I’d like it to appeal particularly to children,” Jane said, “with readings on Saturday mornings, storytellers, chalk artists, maybe puppet shows.”

“No real books? No literature? No local history?”

“Oh, yes, of course real books. Mainly real books. But an interactive sort of a place—fun, if you see what I mean.”

“I believe I do,” she said skeptically. “I was thinking about the problem of babysitting loose children.”

“Students from the college could take that on. I’ve got two of them interning with the Co-op.”

Mrs. Phibbs gave her a skeptical look. “Paid interns?”

“No, not yet, although I’m considering hiring them at the end of the term. At the moment they earn three units of credit.”

“Good. Keep it that way. Don’t waste money when you can find free labor. That’s rule number one. When their term is done, send them packing and advertise for newbies. Do not confuse business with sentimentality, Jane. A penny saved, after all. What else do you envision?”

“I believe we could set up the…caravan…in a disused food truck once we removed the interior of the truck and put in bookshelves. I’ve got volunteer help for that and a design in mind.”

“A city-approved craftsman?”

“My husband, actually.”

Lettie frowned and began to speak but was distracted when their food appeared. She inspected her toast and seemed satisfied, although the eggs, she told the waitress, appeared to have been in cold storage for a month or two, given the color of the yolk.

“I could…” the waitress began.

“What good would it do?” Lettie said. “They’re bought in wholesale lots, no doubt. The cooler is full of last month’s eggs. I’ll just hold my nose when I eat them.”

Lettie turned to Jane and said, “I believe I met your husband at the City Sociable in February. I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t recall his name.”

“Jerry,” Jane said, watching the confused waitress drift away.

“Ah! Named after St. Jerome of Wales, no doubt.”

“He’s Irish, mainly. But I might start calling him St. Jerome when I’m angry with him.”

“Which I hope is rarely, Jane. I was always unlucky in love. I had a husband many years back, but he…passed away.” She sat for a silent moment before asking, “What does your Jerry do for a living? Is he on the Co-op payroll? An officer?”

“No, he has independent means, actually. He studied literature at the university, didn’t want to teach, and so he stuck with carpentry, which he was good at. Not long ago he sold his business.” It occurred to her that she might have said too much, but there was no taking it back.

“Independent means? Isn’t that lovely. I don’t mean to pry, but if you have access to…”

“I decided that I wouldn’t lean on Jerry for money,” Jane said, anticipating her next question. “Nor my friends, unless they offer it.”

“You’re a self-reliant woman! That’s good for your soul but not for your bank account, if you take my meaning. Would you lean on your husband’s money if the Co-op were bound to fail?”

“Maybe, but I’d rather fail on my own terms. We’re a community property household in all other ways.”

“And yet despite your independent soul you took your husband’s family name?”

“I wasn’t fond of a hyphenated name, and I like the name Larkin. I guess I’m old-fashioned.”

“More jam, please!” Lettie demanded when the waitress came into view. “Well! I admire your pluck, Jane. And I like it that you’ve got a rose-tinted Pollyanna streak in you. Now give me a quick rundown of finances. How does the Co-op survive?”

“It’s complicated, and we haven’t reached sustainability yet, but member families pay fifty dollars in annual fees, thereby accruing shares in the Co-op. City residents are entitled to a twenty percent discount on shares. Any member can claim a plot in the community garden, but a booth at the farmer’s market costs $120 per month, which is thirty dollars every Saturday morning. Booths or garden plots that aren’t maintained return to the Co-op after three months.”

“My heavens. I don’t wonder that you’re worried about sustainability. Fifty dollars here and thirty dollars there! Can a serious supporter buy multiple annual memberships?”

“Yes. A voting member needs ten.”

“Then put the Center down for fifty. If we’re in league together, the Center will want a loud voice when it comes to decision-making, and that’ll get you an immediate transfusion of funds. But surely you have donors who offer real help?”

“We do, several generous patrons actually, and we’re always on the lookout for more.” A loud voice? Jane wondered how she could slow Lettie down without shutting her down completely.

“I can help you find real donors,” she said, pulling the plastic top from a jam container and spreading jam on her toast. “Generous patrons are a rare breed and hard to get at. I’m on friendly terms with some of the wealthiest families in the area, however. Can I tell you a bit about how we do it at the Antiquity Center? You might find it educational.”

“Please,” Jane said.

“First, I hold an endowed Chair. That’s vital, do you see. It secures your income into perpetuity, and you dictate your own salary, which can be a trap for the greedy, but it’s an avoidable trap.”

“Someone must have been very generous to endow a chair.”

“Professor Arthur Johnston from Tidwell College, whom I married. He was well off, although not what anyone would call rich. But even a small amount of wealth can make good things happen if it’s handled correctly, and I assure you that I had no scruples about leaning on his money to promote the Antiquity Center. It was not me who profited, do you see. He envisioned the Center and I brought his dream into being. He left a significant sum to keep the Center going, including his collection of books, artifacts, and memorabilia, mostly historical Californiana. He gave me complete control, and when he passed away the Center became my own by right of inheritance. I was damned if a Johnny-come-lately, know-nothing, managerial type was going to sit in my chair. The point being that we should be looking for long-term funding.”

We… Jane wondered whether Lettie’s little speech had something to do with Jerry’s money being off-limits. “You’re something of a tiger,” she said, smiling at Lettie.

“I’m proud to say that I am—a rare breed. A private librarian has no master. I’m at the behest neither of the city nor the county, and in that regard I serve as a watchdog—an historical watchdog. And I have teeth. I can be quite useful to my friends, Jane, and a woeful enemy to my foes. I say that in the interests of plain speaking. I can see that you and I will be the best of friends.”

She sat smiling, waiting for Jane to respond.

“I hope so,” Jane said, at a loss for anything better and wondering what foes a librarian might be an enemy to.

“I’ll consider these book caravan ideas of yours,” Lettie said. “We’ll cuss and discuss it, as I like to say, along with the issue of patrons. In fact, I might go one better. I have a contact who can secure vehicles at the best prices, so if you have a particular truck in mind, text me the particulars. Meanwhile, I have to dash. My clerk will be counting the minutes until he’s off work. Ach! I’ve left my purse behind! I could run for it, if…”

“Don’t do any such thing,” Jane said, and she took $30 out of her wallet, handed it to the waitress, and told her to keep the change. Lettie widened her eyes, which Jane found satisfying. The two of them made their way out of the café, which was half-empty now that the breakfast rush had throttled down. On the sidewalk Lettie took Jane’s hand into her fingers and shook it as if she was ringing a small bell. A horn honked out on Chapman Avenue, and Jane saw that it was Jerry driving past, waving out the window of his old pickup truck, a wide grin on his face, the wind blowing his hair.

“Who on earth was that leering creature?” Mrs. Phibbs asked.

“That would be St. Jerome,” Jane said.

“I didn’t recognize him. He had the visage of a… He had an odd sort of look on his face. I’ll bid you adieu, then.” With that she turned away and headed east down Chapman Avenue at a determined clip.

Jane reminded herself not to be judgmental. It would be easy enough to drift into eccentricity living alone throughout one’s life, mourning a dead husband. But she would have to think hard about how much leeway to allow Lettie Phibbs, even if the woman turned out to be serious about finding financial supporters for the Co-op. Aside from Jerry, Jane neither wanted nor needed a partner. It was a conundrum, though. Money was never free, even when it was given away.

4

AT ACE HARDWARE Jerry had bought odds and ends to shore up the foundation of the house: a brick hammer, a four-ton bottle-jack and a concrete slab to set it on, metal plates and screws, and a pair of cotton coveralls with handy pockets that had put him back nearly forty bucks. Working under a house was a dirty business. The sky was a deep, clear blue, thank God, but the radio had just reported a flood watch to go along with the approaching storm—another worry for Jane and the Co-op garden and farmer’s market, which sat on the flood plain along Santiago Creek.

He turned down Shaffer Street past the Holy Spirit Church with its bell tower and stained glass windows and old brick, and then west again on Chapman Avenue, heading toward the Plaza now, the heart of Old Orange. As he was passing Scotty’s Drugstore and Soda Fountain, he saw Jane coming out onto the sidewalk behind a woman with hair like a silver orb and oddly short bangs—the librarian, Mrs. Phibbs. She looked well-fed and well-to-do. He tapped on the horn and waved broadly out the window, Jane waving back, Mrs. Phibbs frowning at him, probably thinking he was ogling the two of them. She was half-right. He was ogling one of them, given that it was okay these days to ogle one’s wife.

Jane had always reminded him favorably of Wilma Flintstone, although the red in her dark hair was mainly visible in sunlight. She wore it the same way as Wilma, though, piled on top of her head. When he first met her at a Halloween party she was barefoot, wearing a cavewoman dress and Wilma’s signature stone necklace. He’d tripped over a low table gawking at her when he walked in—something she reminded him of from time to time.

He saw his barber crossing the street toward the bank, and he waved as he swung past into the traffic circle, stopping at the cross-walk for a woman walking two chihuahuas and a bulldog. Across the way, near the fountain in the Plaza, fifteen or twenty people were chanting slogans, holding signs that read, “It’s the Plaza, not the Circle!”

He waved cheerfully at them, too, feeling as if he were living on Penny Lane, and then he drove entirely around the Circle, or maybe the Plaza, a second time, looking at the sycamore and magnolia trees, and at the tiled fountain that was flinging sunlit water into the air. The Continental Café was busy out at the sidewalk tables, and the drive-through at Rod’s Liquor had a line waiting. Maybe the earthquake had put people in the mood to drink. He turned into the Omega Burger parking lot, considered stopping for a pastrami and egg burrito, reconsidered, and turned back onto Chapman, heading back east in the direction of home.

When he passed Scotty’s the second time Jane was nowhere to be seen. She would hear about the flood watch soon enough. Probably she’d already been alerted. She was a slave to weather and water, tracking stream gauge and rainfall data like other people tracked sports statistics. He thought about the doll-like Mrs. Phibbs now and what she might know about the Chinese coin in his pocket. Work on the cellar could wait for the half-hour it would take to chat with her.

He turned into the parking lot behind the old two-story craftsman bungalow that housed the Orange County Antiquity Center, a place he never before had a reason to visit. Th ere were two other cars in the small lot—a black Cadillac Escalade and a battered Toyota Prius with a bicycle rack on the back. He pulled in next to the Prius, which left two spaces open for history buffs.

* * *

Jerry was met with a pervasive silence when he entered the wood-paneled vestibule. He stood still, simply getting a sense of the place. Either the interior had been carefully restored or was lucky enough to have been preserved over the past century. The oak floors were bordered with a walnut inlay and were scattered with area rugs that muffled the sound of footsteps. He looked into a nearby glass case with a display of art pottery and Depression glass and old jewelry—lots of silver and turquoise. Framed photographs hung on the walls above the display case, depicting the city when it was incorporated in 1888—a crowd of founding fathers in top hats and mustaches and black clothing, but very few city mothers in evidence.

Out beyond the vestibule lay what must have been the living room of the house when it was still functioning as a house. A carpeted stairway led away to the second story. Mahogany bookcases lined the walls of the room along with more display cases, and in the center stood three mission-style oak library desks and chairs, with another waist-high display case along the wall with a Navajo rug hanging above it. There were a dozen plein-air paintings on the walls—very nice paintings, it seemed to him. If he were a thief he could fill a wheelbarrow with prime antiques and art objects and haul them away.

“Mr. Larkin, I believe,” a woman said from behind him, and he turned toward the voice. It was the upper half of Mrs. Phibbs herself, smiling at him now from behind a long counter.

He dipped his head in a small bow and said, “Mrs. Phibbs!”

“Indeed. I’ve just been breakfasting with your beautiful wife. Jane is doing some interesting work— very interesting work. You’re lucky to have such a woman by your side. I hope you appreciate her.”

“Every day,” Jerry said.

“What brings you to my Antiquity Center, Mr. Larkin?”

“Call me Jerry. What brings me here? Curiosity mostly. We bought a Spanish-style home over on Water Street six months ago, and…”

“The old Clemens residence. I know it well. It’s got quite a history.”

“Does it? That’s what I was led to believe by the realtor, who…”

“That would be Kat Winkle, as I recall? She and her husband Perry are very good friends of mine. I’ve known them for years.”

“Yes, Kat Winkle. Anyway, she mentioned that the house had a lot of history, like you said. I’m just curious about it. Nothing specific, really. I woke up this morning and realized that I didn’t know much about the house I lived in. Am I making sense?”

“Indeed you are. You’ve come to the right shop if it’s information you’re looking for, Mr. Larkin. You’re from elsewhere, aren’t you? Jane tells me that you moved into Old Orange only a short time ago.”

“Both of us grew up in Anaheim. That qualifies as elsewhere, I suppose—four miles as the crow flies—and we’ve been leasing a house on Lemon Street for the two years before we bought the Water Street house.”

“Newcomers, then! You’ll find that Old Orange is a world unto itself. Some of our residents go back seven generations. We value our history, unlike Anaheim, which bulldozed theirs forty-five years ago.”

“I wasn’t around then,” Jerry said, “but I remember it as clear as yesterday. What sort of history, then? Our house, I mean.”

“The past is always a long story, Mr. Larkin, but I’ll give you the sound-bite version. The land that the city occupies was granted to Jose Antonio Yorba in 1809, a Spanish land grant. In later years it became the Rancho Santiago de Santa Ana, over 60,000 acres. The Yorbas were one of the first families.”

“Those were the days,” Jerry said. “I wish our quarter of an acre had been granted to us instead of costing close to a million bucks.”

Mrs. Phibbs frowned at him again, as if he was making light of serious things. He told himself to cut it out. Th is was the sort of thing Jane warned him about.

“As I was attempting to say, the land between Cambridge and Water Street, where your house lies, was the site of the Flores Adobe. There was a well on the property dug by Estancio Flores in the middle of the century. He was the brother of the infamous bandit Juan Flores. You’ve heard of the Flores gang?”

Jerry shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“It’s a fascinating piece of local history, at least for someone with a healthy curiosity. One theory has it that the bandit Juan Flores murdered his brother over a woman and stolen gold. Estancio Flores simply disappeared one day, and the old adobe sat empty. There was uneaten food on the table, the door left open, the animals untended. It’s quite a mystery.”

“He didn’t return?”

“He did not. And Juan Flores was hanged in Los Angeles not long after that, which ended the story of the two brothers. It was because of Estancio’s well that your own Water Street became the first real street in the area. The city still taps into the aquifer beneath the surface of the Flores land. By the time Water Street was laid down, the adobe was long demolished. The area was planted in oranges in those days. Some years after the First World War there was sub-division, and your house, if I’m not mistaken, was built in 1926, one of the earliest in the tract.”

“I’ll be darned,” Jerry said to her. “Jane will be fascinated to hear all this.”

“I’m fairly certain that Jane is already aware of much of it. Her Co-op was founded on historical principles, I believe. We don’t trifle with history here in Orange. We relish it.”

A hot dog joke came into his mind, but he swallowed it. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t mean to trifle.”

“Here’s something closer to home for you, Mr. Larkin. The man who built your home was a Mr. Maxwell Clemens, a stonemason, who harbored a Chinese woman in the house. A woman from the old country. Her name was Ling Jiao, and she spoke no English.”

“Kat Winkle mentioned this when we were first looking at the house, but I don’t know the particulars. So you say he harbored this woman? Like a boat?”

“If you wish. Certainly she was safe from storms as long as she remained indoors. She was said to be a servant whom he had brought along from San Francisco. There was a cabin at the rear of the property back then where she lived, or where the man Clemens claimed she lived. Popular suspicion was that they secretly co-habited. In those days, of course, there could have been no marriage. People would have made them miserable.”

“And that went on in our very house?”

“The point is, we had a mixed-race couple right here in Old Orange, and, yes, they lived in your very house. That’s something you can be proud of, even if their lives were carried on in secret.”

Jerry nodded, although he couldn’t quite see her point. Proud though? “So the house has a story of its very own.”

“Every house has a story of its own, Mr. Larkin. Houses are living things, until they’re destroyed. They outlive people if we take care of them. Ling Jiao died at a young age, and is thought to have been buried in the immigrant plot at the Anaheim Cemetery. Oh, there’s a story there, to be sure, and with elements of tragedy.”

“There is,” Jerry said, nodding politely. “Part of the reason I stopped in to see you is that I was wondering if you know anything about coins—old coins? I found one, and I wonder what it is, historically speaking. Coincidentally, it appears to be Chinese.”

She stared at him for a long moment as if taking his measure and then smiled. “Coins are not my area of expertise, Mr. Larkin, but a librarian is not trained simply to be a repository of information. She is trained to find what she doesn’t know. If you brought an old coin with you, trot it out.”

5

JANE WALKED UPHILL toward the highest elevation of Hart Park in Old Orange. The day was almost hot by now, the sun shining as if making up for lost time. The muddy park was nearly deserted, the tennis courts and playgrounds still puddled with water. She took off her green Co-op windbreaker, tied it around her waist, and looked out over the freeway, ugly and loud along the south edge of the park. The open space provided a gorgeous view of the Santa Ana Mountains, however, which were spectacularly clear this morning.

There were storm clouds lingering over Old Saddleback, the local name for Santiago and Modjeska peaks, which appeared to run together as if they formed a single mountain. Dark washes of falling rain curtained some of the slopes, which were still bright green, a wonderful thing after three years of drought. Another storm was lurking out over the ocean—a big one, given the satellite images on last night’s news, with potentially heavy onshore winds starting tonight.

She hated to cancel the Saturday morning market, but blown-down awnings and a market empty of patrons were worse than a cancellation. The farmers, many of them driving what amounted to jalopies, came into town from as far away as Ventura, San Diego, and the Inland Empire, so an early cancellation was better than a last-minute one.